


Strain

by toushindai (WallofIllusion)



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Begging, Bratting, Established Relationship, F/M, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Flogging, I cannot get the pegging tag to stay where it's supposed to wtf, Masochism, Masturbation, Naked Male Clothed Female, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon, Predicament Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 22:22:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17906759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallofIllusion/pseuds/toushindai
Summary: She's really got him trussed up this time. But that's what Zagreus gets for being too eager, he guesses; he and Megaera are both too proud to let each other off easy.(pre-canon during-relationship pwp, because of who I am as a person.)





	Strain

**Author's Note:**

> Zag is a masochist and a _brat_ much more than he’s a sub and he doesn’t safeword when he should, in this essay I will

She’s really got him trussed up this time.

This is what Zagreus gets, he supposes, for demonstrating unreserved eagerness when Meg brought out the rope and ordered him to strip. She’s too proud to let him off easy. So instead of just tying his hands behind his back or to his ankles or in any of the several configurations they’ve enjoyed up until this point, she’d tied his wrists together at one end of a long length of rope and secured the other around his right knee, with a significant slack between them. And before he could tease her about the strange tie, she’d caught the center of the slack part of the rope on the end of a hook hanging from a pulley on the ceiling (had that always been there?) and raised the hook until his arms were above his head and his knee was bent up in front of him as far as it would go. He’s left to balance on the ball of his other foot, and she’s barely given him enough room to do that. Each breath he takes requires him to lift himself onto his toes and each time he exhales he feels the strain in his arms. 

Still clothed herself, Meg stands with the free end of the hook wrapped around her hand, gauging how much he can take with strategic tugs.

“Uh, Meg?” he says, stretching a little further onto the ball of his foot as she makes adjustments. ”Just thought I’d mention, this is pretty uncomfortable.”

She sends him a look tinged with unkind amusement and cranks the hook a little higher before securing it against the wall. “That’s the idea.”

“Right.” He catches his breath, strained anew, and rebalances under her watchful eye. “Is this something you use on your victims?”

“No, this one’s just for you,” she answers.

“Well! Don’t I feel special.”

“Hmph.” 

She rolls her eyes, but a faint smirk decorates her lips as she takes a leisurely, assessing stroll around him. Squirming surreptitiously to find the least uncomfortable angle to hold himself at, Zagreus can’t help himself but to ask, “Like what you see?” 

“Yes,” she admits casually. Her eyes drop to his groin. “You seem to be enjoying it, too.” 

Zagreus answers with a chuckle through gritted teeth. He’s hard. Of course he is. 

Meg trails cool fingertips down his torso, teasing, stopping infuriatingly short of his cock. His thighs clench with want, and her smirk grows crueler. “What are you expecting, Zagreus?” she asks with a mocking lilt to her voice. 

“Well—” He stops to breathe, straining along the line she’s made of his body from ceiling to floor. It aches already and it’s only going to get worse. “—I expect you’re going to get your whip out, now that you’ve got me where you want me.”

She scoffs, her eyes narrowed. “Is that a _request_?” 

“Just a prediction.” 

It _is_ a request, actually, though she wouldn’t let him make one like this. But he may as well provoke her: either she’ll give him what he wants or she’ll come up with some other way to punish him. And even should she choose to just leave him here, the strain and anticipation already have his blood rushing. 

Meg leans in. “I can tell exactly what you’re thinking, you little brat,” she says.

Her face is tantalizingly close, and he answers by surging suddenly forward, an attempt to kiss her. But he misses—she’d guessed it was coming—and instead she backhands him sharply. He yelps. The impact ruins his precarious footing and he scrabbles to repair it, but he’s stretched too taut to steady himself against the floor _or_  the rope until Meg grasps him by one arm and gives him a firm point to ground himself against. Then he’s balanced and strained once more. He only breathes for a few moments, until he’s re-accustomed to the painful equilibrium. Then he swallows. “Well, OK,” he mutters.

It was directed at himself, not at her, but Meg takes it as a cue to release his arm. “Are you starting to see how this works, Zag?” she asks.

“Yes,” he answers, a tad less mischievous than before. 

“Good.” She sends him a curt smile, then walks around behind him, out of sight. “Now be a good little man and stand still for me.”

“OK,” he says again, and he does. He can feel everything: the rope around his wrists and leg, the sting of Meg’s slap, the throbbing strain of every single muscle. He can hear Meg opening one of her drawers and rummaging around, and anticipation courses through him with enough force to nearly make him squirm. Then the rummaging sound stops, and he holds his breath, and he waits—and waits—

And his curiosity gets the better of him and he looks, carefully, over his shoulder. Meg is holding a many-tailed flogger and wearing a patronizing sneer.

“That’ll be five extra lashes for your impatience,” she informs him.

“Of course,” he says, not hiding his smirk, because he doubts she’d ever intended otherwise. She narrows her eyes, displeased at his impertinence, and he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb: “What, haven’t I earned the whip this time?”

“Oh, you’ve earned more than that,” Meg answers, voice cold. “But you’re barely staying on your feet—”

“—Well, foot, really,” Zagreus breaks in.

Meg takes a sharp step forward, grasps his hair, and yanks. He grunts, again forced to struggle for balance as his ankle wobbles and his arms scream protest. It hurts, his whole body hurts and gods damn it all he is _so_ hard—

“You’re barely staying on your _foot_  as it is,” Meg allows, facetiously gracious, “and there’s no way you’d be able to stand up to the whip.”

“Try me.”

“Believe me, I will.” She releases his hair and indicates with a jerk of her chin that he should look forward. He does, anticipation turning over in his stomach, and he listens to the soft brush of leather against itself as Meg toys with the flogger’s falls. Gods, she’s still going to make him wait, isn’t she. He grits his teeth. He won’t _beg_ for it, but if he runs his mouth off instead she might yet decide that he doesn’t deserve the flogging he’s so hungry for. So he exhales, intentionally. The rope above him creaks, and he focuses on that and on his posture to summon some semblance of patience. He is a line drawn from the floor to the ceiling, a living line from the stinging in the ball of his foot through the cramp in his right leg and the ache trailing up both arms—

A moment later—he honestly can’t tell how long—Meg makes a quiet, impressed sound. “Good,” she says, possessive of his model behavior. “Now, let’s get _started_.”

The falls hit his back with her last word and he bucks in surprise. He exhales through gritted teeth, his leg straining once more to maintain his balance, and OK, yes, maybe she had a point about what he can and can’t take when she’s got him strung up like this. He barely has a chance to feel the thick heavy pain in his shoulder before she hits him again. But this time he expects it. This time he keeps his balance. Heat radiates out from the point of impact and he inhales as if his breath will carry it coursing through his veins.

“Good,” Meg says again as he stands steady. “Tell me when you need out.”

“Right,” Zagreus answers, not planning to need any such thing. 

Whether she hears the response as sarcastic or not, she strikes him again, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the pain. Again, and he growls lowly. Again, and soon every breath comes from someplace deep in his lungs and drags out with a guttural sound too low to be called a wheeze. His cock throbs with need as she beats him. He’s dribbling pre-come and squirming fruitlessly against the air, and every movement forces him to work to maintain his balance and his legs, his arms, they’re quivering and he can’t stop them—

Another strike, not even harder than the rest, and his body suddenly drops as his left leg gives out. He shouts as his suspended arms and knee take on his entire weight, more than they can bear, but he can’t get his leg back under him, he can’t get it to lock, his ankle keeps wobbling—

“ _Idiot_ ,” Meg growls, vicious, and then she’s holding him up with one arm. With her other hand, she saws through the rope with a knife—where did that come from, he wonders—and then he’s free. His right foot drops to the floor but no, OK, won’t be putting any weight on that one for a bit, either. He aches. Every corner of his body sings with pain as he continues to lean on Meg, as she makes a noise of disgust and shoves him towards the bed. He stumbles willingly onto it. It’s soft. It’s good to sit. Even better to lie backwards and take stock of all the sensations coursing through him. Spinning head, burning back, rope still wrapped around his wrists and twin lines of fire up the underside of each arm and stretching up the inside of his right thigh. His left calf quivers, not pain but baffled exhaustion. He’s hard as a rock. 

When he’s almost caught his breath, he lifts his head a little to look towards Meg. She’s watching him with arms crossed and face pinched with scorn. He smiles—winningly, he thinks. “What do I get for my good behavior?”

She sneers at him. “That wasn’t good behavior,” she says. “You were supposed to tell me when you needed out.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but only air comes out. No counterargument. He should’ve, some part of him had known that, but he couldn’t, he _can’t_ let her think he can’t withstand whatever she throws at him. He lets his head flop back against the mattress. He can’t just cut his losses, either. “Let me make it up to you now,” he says, still charming, not pleading. Not at the point of pleading, yet. 

Meg sniffs. “You think you have the right to try?” 

Not by her standards, no. But before he can figure out a wheedling counterargument, the bed shifts, and then she’s kneeling over his shoulders. He catches his breath in surprise and his cock jumps.

“Beg me for it first,” she murmurs, “and _maybe_ I’ll let you earn something for yourself.”

This close, the smell of her desire reaches him, and it makes him want her even more. If only his hands were untied he would touch her, pull her forward over his mouth. Instead he looks up at her with a smirk that he knows is unwise. “Really, beg you?” he says, still not playing his role. “Why would I do that when you want it as much as I do?”

But she remains unprovoked. “Because I’ll take care of myself and leave you with nothing if you don’t.”

She would, he knows she would. He matches her gaze and he feels the thrumming temptation to capitulate to her demands; she would reward him, and he knows it’s the fastest path to release. But, regrettably, he’s a stubborn idiot. “I’m not going to beg,” he says, and she’s not even surprised.

“Fine, then,” she says. “Brat.” 

But she doesn’t withdraw as he expects. She only sits back on her heels, and with one hand she pulls her skirt up to her waist. He exhales, understanding, completely helpless. Still straddling him, she dips her hand between her legs, and her fingers glisten as she begins to stroke herself. Her eyes burn into his all the while, watching him imperiously and possessively. She intends to get off on his discomfort, because she always does; but to be fair, he would too, if she would just give him something, _anything_  to work with—

He squirms, tightly, though it makes his aching muscles protest. “Meg,” he says, trying to make his voice very reasonable.

“Yes?” 

Her composure is flawless, even as her thighs twitch slightly with the pleasure she’s drawing out of her own body. Zagreus swallows. “Come on,” he says. “Let me please you.” 

A sardonic lift of one eyebrow. “You know that’s not begging, don’t you?”

He tries again. “I owe you after all of that.” 

“Yes, you do.” 

Still not up to her standards. He exhales, closing his eyes briefly in frustration. Gods, he wishes she would sit on his face, grind against his chest— _anything_  to make him a participant in what’s happening and not just a powerless observer. She hisses suddenly, quietly, and if she doesn’t let him do something for her soon, he’ll miss his chance—

He grits his teeth. “Meg, _please_ ,” he says. “Come on. Let me taste you.” 

“That’s a demand,” she informs him. But then she scoffs. “But I suppose it’s the best you can do, isn’t it? Here.” 

She grasps his hair with her free hand and moves forward, over his face. With a groan of relief, he lifts his open mouth to her cunt and lets her bear down on him. She’s so wet, and she’s merciless, riding his face without paying much attention to trivial matters like whether he can breathe. But he holds his own, tonguing her clit and sucking the dew from her folds. It coats his lips and fills his mouth. All the while he can hear her breathing in tightly controlled huffs as she uses him. He digs his tongue into her, drinking in her taste until he nearly suffocates on it. 

By the time her breath goes suddenly ragged and her thighs clench around his ears, his chin is slick and his jaw is aching with the rest of him. She exhales, sits back. Zagreus breathes deeply and licks her arousal from his lips. Gods, what a woman. 

But now that he’s no longer focused on his task, there’s nothing to distract him from his own desire. Meg slides off him, unconcerned, carefully staying clear of his leaking cock, and the deprivation of her touch leaves him feeling hollow. He reaches after her with his bound hands. “Meg—”

“Yes, Zagreus?” she says in a cool voice. She knows what she’s doing to him.

He shifts halfway onto his side, facing her, and gazes at her with helpless desire. “Please?” he says, too far gone to fight it anymore.

“Hmm,” she says. With one finger, she wipes a drop of pre-come from his cock, evoking a low groan of need. “Do you think you’ve earned the right to come?” 

“Please,” he says again; he doesn’t think he’s earned it, he knows he’s too stubborn, but he’s half-mad with desire and the need to be touched. “Please, let me?” 

Without another word, she curls her hand around his cock, and his hips thrust into her touch automatically, but—“No, I want—please,” he says again, as her eyebrows shoot up, forbidding any demands on his part. “Please, Meg, Megaera, I want you to fuck me.” 

She laughs in surprise and withdraws her hand, and he whimpers. “You want me to fuck you?” she asks, her voice so much clearer than his and crueler for the contrast. “You want me to dig out my harness and go through all the trouble of strapping just so that you can come three seconds later and make a mess of my nice sheets?” 

“Yes,” he says breathlessly, yes yes yes he wants that, he wants her to shove his head down and take him by the hips and pound him into the mattress, wants each thrust to force his desperate cock against the sheets like he’s a teenager humping the bed. Every part of him aches after the suspension and the flogging and he wants her to drag pleasure out of him anyway. She’s staring at him, incredulous at his audacity, and the thought that she might refuse him altogether makes him bite back a whine—

But then she scoffs, tosses her head. She’s almost smirking. “At least you finally figured out how to beg,” she says. “This is a good look on you, Zag, even if it is _pathetic_.” 

That last word doesn’t grate the way it should, or it does but humiliation and helplessness only feed the throbbing need in his groin. He can’t take his eyes off Meg. There’s scorn and delight and possession on her face, all at once and all aimed at him, and she thinks she has him beat and maybe she does. If he tries to speak he’s only going to beg again. Instead he only watches her as she stands from the bed to once more search through her drawers. She finds her strap-on soon enough, and comes back to the bed to dangle it over him teasingly. 

“Let’s hear it again,” she says. He strains upwards, trying to touch his lips to the dark, polished wood of the cock, but she only lifts it out of his reach with a snicker and he’s too exhausted to reach any further. He flops back, and she smiles unkindly. “Come on, Zag, you know what I want from you.”

So he gives in. “Please,” he says, and when that doesn’t move her, “Meg, Meg, Meg, _please_  fuck me, I can’t take this.” 

“I bet you could,” she says offhandedly. “If I made you wait another hour…” 

“ _No_ ,” he protests, not even meaning to, and she turns an unforgiving eye towards him at what sounds like a demand. He whimpers in desperate frustration. “Come on, Meg, _please_ , I need to come.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Now you’re just complaining.” But she indicates with a sharp hand movement that he should flip over for her, _finally_. “Get your hands above your head and get ready,” she orders.

He obeys, choking back a groan as his cock brushes against the sheets. It takes everything in him not to grind against the mattress, but for once in his life he knows better. Meg gets into the harness, and soon he feels her hands on his ass as she takes her position over him.

“On your knees,” she says.

He tries—he really does. But they won’t hold him, not after earlier. He shakes his head helplessly, and Meg scoffs. 

“Fine, then,” she says. “Lie flat for me.” 

It’s easier than anything else she could ask. He stretches himself out and lets her wrench his thighs apart before she crouches over him. She drips cool oil onto him, one finger sliding between his cheeks and briefly into his asshole, and that’s all the warning he gets before she shoves the cock into him instead. A ragged shout escapes his throat. His mind can’t keep up well enough to sort pain from pleasure and it all comes through as pure overwhelming _sensation_. Her hands come down on his shoulders, bracing her, and with her weight leaning on him he can hardly breathe, either. 

“How’s that?” she asks, curt.

“Mmph…” He moves slightly, his body adjusting to the situation, and the shifting pressure against his cock focuses the roar inside his head into an all-consuming wave of pleasure. He groans. It takes long, maddening seconds before he realizes she’s waiting for his answer, and he pulls himself together enough to mumble, “Good, gods, please go.” 

She clicks her tongue. “Still making demands,” she observes—but then she goes to work. He moans through gritted teeth, not even bothering to keep quiet, as she thrusts into him, hitting just the right spot and allowing him just enough room to grind his aching cock against the bed. Her rhythm is heavy and relentless; it flags only once, only for a moment, and her nails dig into his shoulders as she lets out a choked gasp of her own, coming a second time against him. But then she doubles down and he’s lost again, and before long he releases with a shout, his whole body seizing with pleasure. He’s left shaking as Meg withdraws. It feels like it takes forever to catch his breath. 

At last he rolls onto his side to watch Meg slip out of the harness and correct her skirt. She’s businesslike—beautiful. “Come lie with me,” he says, voice hoarse.

She shakes her head. “How’s your ankle?” 

“It’s fine.” He gives his left ankle a little twist and—oh, that twinge doesn’t feel exactly normal. Not quite. 

Watching his face, Meg picks up on his hesitation. She turns her brusqeness on him, first taking out her knife (ah, she keeps it in her belt) to slice the rope off his wrists and right leg at last, and then ordering, “Sit up.” 

He does, slowly readjusting to being functional again, but he pouts at her. “It’s fine,” he says again, rubbing the blood back into his wrists. “Don’t worry about it, Meg.” 

“You’re going to wrap it.” She hands him a bandage and a pin to secure the end with, and makes sure that he actually starts wrapping the bandage around his (somewhat wobbly) ankle before turning to start putting the harness and the rope away. He’s careful with the wrapping. The pin she’s given him to secure the bandage has a tiny carved skull at its head instead of the horned emblem of Hades worn by those bound to his father by some degree of choice rather than by blood; he’s glad of that. By the time he’s done, he’s glad for the bandage as well. He’s going to ache inside and out for days, and that’s fine, but he doesn’t want to sprain his ankle for real. 

He wrestles the dirtied sheets off the bed without standing, pushes them unceremoniously to the floor, and then flops back down. “Meg,” he says when she comes for the sheets. “Come here, lie down. I promise I’ll help you clean up later.”

She turns his way and considers him for a long moment; then, at last, she comes to the bed and lies down on her stomach beside him. She exhales slowly as she stretches out, and it occurs to Zagreus that she must be tired, too, after all he just asked of her. He lies on his side and massages her shoulders, earning a muffled sound.

“That’s good?”

“Yes,” she answers. For a moment she stretches her whole body taut, wing reaching towards the ceiling; then she relaxes bonelessly with a sigh. “Blood and darkness, Zag, you are so much _work_.”

“Sorry,” he says, both sincere and amused by the triviality of the complaint. “I hope I’m worth it.”

She snorts, which… isn’t exactly affirmation, is it. Oops. Zagreus swallows a flicker of embarrassment and slides closer to her, wrapping his arm around the small of her back. “Thank you,” he murmurs by her ear. “That was incredible. _You’re_ incredible.”

“Flattery does not make you less work,” Meg retorts. But she doesn’t push him away. A moment later she admits, “At least you’re entertaining.”

He hides a smirk; he hadn’t known she thought so. “All I’ve ever aimed to be,” he quips, and is gratified when she snorts again. He’s starting to understand her sense of humor, he thinks, and he likes that he gets to see it. He presses a soft, warm kiss to the back of her neck. “I’m tired, and I don’t feel like getting dressed. Can I sleep here for a bit?”

“If you must.”

“Are you getting up?”

She breathes in and out, contemplative. “I haven’t decided,” she answers. “I have things I need to do before I head back out.”

“Is resting one of those things?” he asks. He knows how hard she works. 

“It is, actually.”

“Then stay here a little longer.” 

He creeps his hand up her back and rubs where her leathery wing meets her shoulder, feeling the way she shifts under his touch. She turns her head and looks at him, considering. “I suppose I can at least wait until you fall asleep.”

“You won’t have to wait long. I’m exhausted.”

“ _You_ are?” she asks, sardonic.

He answers with a low chuckle and pulls her closer, resting his shoulder on hers. She lets him. He closes his eyes, and lets the smell of her skin and the quiet sound of her breath lull him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for coming to my TED talk  
> Also I made an [art](http://toushindainohihon.tumblr.com/post/183507422522/there-is-an-insanely-horny-line-in-the-update-so)


End file.
